The Science Of Seduction Christmas Special!
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: Three months early! Sherlock Holmes hates Christmas. John Watson loves Christmas. Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson. Something's going to have to give.


The Science Of Seduction Christmas Special!

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Sherlock Holmes did not like Christmas.

This was not due to some trauma he'd experienced as a child. It wasn't because his family had forced him into a little suit and paraded him about every year at their Christmas party. It wasn't because when he was six, he'd wanted a microscope more than anything, and his mother had bought him one only for his father to throw it against a wall and break it when Sherlock refused to go to the party so he could play with it.

No, Sherlock hated Christmas for one reason, and one reason only, and that was the effect it had on people around him.

It was as though December first signaled the start of a drop in the collective IQ of the Christian world, and a goodly portion of the rest of the world, that culminated in people spending entire days with family members they hated, gave trite gifts to people they barely knew, and insisted on wishing him a happy holiday season when all he wanted was to pay the damned cabbie and crawl into bed with his lover.

His lover, who was handing the cabbie a much-too-large tip and smiling warmly. "Happy Christmas to you, too, mate. Have a good holiday."

Which was terribly redundant and absolutely meaningless, and so very _John_. Sherlock grumbled to himself grumpily.

There had been a definite downturn in interesting cases (proving Sherlock's point that the smart people went into hiding over the holidays, criminals included), and a definite upturn in John wanting to stand about talking to complete strangers in shopping centers and tube stations. It was taking up all of John's time and leaving nearly none for sex, which was absolutely unacceptable for Sherlock. To make matters worse, John was now insisting that they not only attend the Holmes family Christmas party on Christmas day, but that they would spend Christmas Eve watching some warm-fuzzy-inducing Christmas film and exchange gifts.

Intolerable.

Sherlock had made his feelings on the holiday season clear, but John seemed to be of the opinion that if he shoved as much Christmas in Sherlock's face as possible, the detective's opinion would change. He had put a wreath on their door, helped Mrs. Hudson string lights outside, had even put up a Christmas tree in their sitting room. Not to mention, the only time Sherlock had shown any interest in the tree, John had gotten angry at him and had made him sleep alone. Granted, his interest had extended solely to seeing how quickly it burned, but interest was interest, right?

John just didn't understand. Christmas made people stupid. It made them soppier and more emotional than they would otherwise be. It made them believe things they would not normally believe, hope for things they would not normally desire. People were suddenly concerned about togetherness and family and love, with quiet introspection and peace. It was a thoroughly tiresome season, one which Sherlock had always wished was much, much shorter.

Entering the flat had become a trial - it seemed warmer and brighter than was usual, and smelled curiously of peppermint and woodsmoke, and every time he was suddenly cocooned in this holiday atmosphere, Sherlock felt more out of place. He hated that feeling, the thought that there was something he couldn't truly understand, couldn't touch or feel or have.

Christmas was not for Sherlock. It was never for Sherlock, but that was fine, because he hated it, anyway, and wouldn't have accepted it if it had been for him.

John, who had been growing wearier and wearier with Sherlock's reticence to join in the holiday spirit, retired to his old room (he did this when he was wrapping presents that he didn't want Sherlock to see, which was ridiculous, as Sherlock had long since deduced that he would be getting an ID bracelet and either two or three books of criminal science). Taking this opportunity to escape from the holiday for just a bit, Sherlock barricaded himself in their bedroom with his laptop to search yet again for something to occupy himself with that wasn't _Christmas-y_.

He was just in time, too, because he could hear faint strains of 'O Holy Night' coming from John's old room _again_. John loved the damned song, and even had a whole three-disc-set of his favorite versions. He was picky about them, too, often rejecting one version or another on the radio because of tempo or lack of passion or what he called 'fluff'. Sherlock had concluded that John liked the versions that weren't too fast or slow, that displayed a sense of exaltation and rejoicing, and that were void of verbal theatrics. Josh Groban was his favorite, with Celine Dion making a close second, but John laughed that off, saying he just thought Groban was cuter.

When Sherlock had pointed out that it was religious in nature, and therefore illogical of John, who had never been especially religious, to be so passionate about the song. John had rolled his eyes.

"It's about the beauty of it, Sherlock. I don't have to truly believe the story of baby Jesus to appreciate the feeling behind it."

It was all just another part of Sherlock and Christmas not mixing well.

So preoccupied was he in his contemplations, he almost didn't notice the bit of paper sticking out of the pocket of John's favorite jacket, draped over the reading chair to await less bitter weather.

Hoping for something interesting (and he really was at his lowest if he was settling for rifling through his lover's pockets from something to entertain him), Sherlock scrambled over and tugged the paper from the pocket. He had at least another hour before John was finished upstairs, hopefully it would hold his attention that long.

Unfolding it, he saw that it was an envelope. It was plain paper, the sort John kept about the house for mailing bills and things, and it had his name on it in John's handwriting, albeit a bit shakier than normal. It was crumpled a bit, as though it had been in John's pocket for some time, or had been routinely folded and unfolded and moved about.

Staring at it for a bit, Sherlock's memory took him back to the night of September 6th, when he had lured John to Hyde Park under the pretense of being held hostage. John had come, believing that he would be submitting himself to torture and death to save Sherlock. It had seemed a reasonable enough way to find out just how deep John's love for Sherlock was. John, however, had been less than happy. He had never said anything, but Sherlock knew that he had been angry about it for some time afterward.

He distinctly remembered John mentioning farewell letters, and he quite suddenly realized that this was exactly what he was holding. It was John's goodbye to Sherlock.

Hands shaking with excitement, Sherlock untucked the flap of the envelope and pulled out the paper. He curled up in the armchair to better smooth out the page against his thighs.

**Sherlock,**

**I was tempted to start this letter with some witty remark, but I can't think of anything, so there you go.**

**I wish I had been braver, even just the littlest bit, and that I hadn't wasted so much time trying to cover up how I feel about you. It seems so stupid now, knowing that I may never see you again, but I've been so very afraid of telling you. I wanted just a little more time, you see, even if it was only ever as your flatmate or friend. Just a little more time to stand beside you, share a little bit of your life with you. The thought of having to leave you, whether because you've rejected me, or because I must die so that you may live, is more painful than any torture, because I love you. So much.**

**There, I've written it. I suppose it's easier now, knowing I'll never have to hear you turn me away.**

**There are so many thing I wanted to share with you, Sherlock. Nights in front of the telly, mornings spent trying to force you to eat. Birthdays, Christmases, summers in the country. Shopping for a sofa, washing dishes, repainting the basement flat. So many things that I wanted to do with you, not because they're special, but because you're special, and you make them special.**

**I wanted to hold you so close it seemed like we were truly one person. I wanted to tell you how very amazing and beautiful and ****good**** you are, even though you won't believe it. I wanted to tell you over and over again, until you did believe it. You should believe it. It's all true.**

**God, Sherlock, I don't want to die. Not like this, not so soon, but if it means you'll live, I'll go gladly with a smile.**

**I want you to remember to eat. You need those calories. I know Mrs. Hudson will look after you, but she's only one woman. Make sure you get some sleep - insomnia dulls the brain, you know. Just, please, take care of yourself. Never forget why I died, Sherlock. I did it so you could live. Don't go making it all for nothing.**

**I'm not sure what else there is to say, except that if I can't have a long, happy, somewhat exasperating life with you, in whatever capacity you would have me, then dying for you is the next best thing.**

**I love you, love you, love you.**

**Always and forever,**

**John**

Sherlock sat for a long moment, rereading the letter and tracing John's name with his fingertips. What must he have thought, those long hours that he spent preparing for his demise? How must he have felt, thinking he would never see Sherlock again?

Pondering this, Sherlock was struck by another thought. What if the situations had been reversed? What would Sherlock have done, assuming he had believed the hoax? Would he have tried harder to find a solution, to stop whatever criminal was holding John hostage? Or would he have done as John had done, accepted his fate and prepared as best he could?  
>His mind stretched back to that evening, when they'd arrived home with bags of takeaway and shy smiles when each thought the other wasn't looking. He remembered how tidy the flat looked, and how John had immediately tossed a plate of sandwiches into the bin. John had cleaned, then, and made dinner for Sherlock so that even when John was being tortured and killed, Sherlock would be able to care for himself.<p>

He remembered seeing 'Open Me' scrawled on the box in John's room that had been previously unmarked. John's Army things, a box he hadn't opened since packing it all away. John had wanted Sherlock to see it, to open it and sift through John's memories even though John hadn't been ready to, even at the moment of his own death.

He remembered John pulling a stack of envelopes off the mantelpiece, smiling at the skull and running a finger over the cap's feather. A stack of five envelopes. One each for Harry, Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Sherlock himself. Farewell letters.

Sherlock reread the letter, feeling that most damnable symptom of 'holiday spirit', the urge to do something unprecedented and kind for someone else.

So, when John sat him down in front of the telly with a cup of cocoa and a plate of gingerbread on Christmas Eve, Sherlock curled up and lay his head in John's lap. He nibbled his biscuit and managed to not say anything insulting about the silly claymation film about the reindeer. He had even enjoyed the Charlie Brown one, but he would never, ever tell John that.

When it was nearly bedtime, John handed Sherlock gifts wrapped in shiny paper. There were little snowmen on it, winking and waving at him, which seemed ludicrous to Sherlock, but he said nothing. He opened them carefully, setting the paper aside as he'd been taught to as a boy, and discovered that he'd been both right and wrong in his deductions as to their contents.

The first gift was a bracelet, but it was a charm bracelet of sorts. It was made of black leather, and there were only two charms. One was a tiny silver magnifying glass, and the other was a tiny gold caduceus. There was a metal plate made to rest against his pulse, and on it John had the engraver put their initials. Sherlock put it on.

The second was three books of fiction. He had no idea why John would give them to him, he hardly ever read fiction anymore. Certainly not humorous fantasy, which was what, Sherlock believed, Terry Pratchett wrote. They had odd titles; 'Hogfather', 'Reaper Man', and 'Night Watch'. Sherlock stacked them on the table beside his well-worn copy of 'The Origin Of Species'.

John explained that they were books that he liked in particular, because he felt they mirrored events and people in his life that were important to him. He mentioned that there was a bony sort of character in particular that reminded him of Sherlock. The detective had no idea how either of them could be compared to fictional characters, but he said nothing about that, either.

When John insisted it was bedtime, Sherlock reached under the couch and pulled out a gift, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine.

For a moment, John had looked blank, as though he didn't quite get what the package was supposed to be. Sherlock wondered if maybe this had been a bad idea.

Then John had lit up. He _glowed_ with happiness, from a smile that was so wide it had to hurt to his toes that wriggled in his socks as though he was being tickled. He reached for the present, grasping his hands like a child begging to be picked up. Sherlock smiled faintly, holding the present just out of reach for a moment before relenting and allowing John to tear into it gleefully.

The doctor's eyebrows furrowed at the patent leather CD case. His name was embossed on the front, and he traced the letters carefully before unclasping it. Flipping through the blank CDs, John's frown became more pronounced before smoothing out into genuine surprise.

"Sherlock...are these...recordings? Of you?"

Nodding, Sherlock handed him a gold marker pen. "I thought you could label them with whatever silly, sentimental titles you wished. I know you miss my playing when I'm out late or too caught up in a case to bother with such things, so I thought this would get you to stop whinging about it," he finished, knowing his cheeks were flushed and wishing yet again that he wasn't so damnably pale.

He was looking away from John, so he didn't have time to brace himself for the strange tackle-tangle-hug John so loved to surprise him with. It involved John body-slamming him onto the couch, bed, or floor, wrapping all his limbs around Sherlock, and pressing his face against Sherlock's neck until the detective complained about not having any feeling in his limbs. He loved and hated the hug. Loved, because he was always filled with a sense of belonging, like John was wrapping him up and holding him close so that he could never get away (_I wanted to hold you so close it seemed like we were truly one person..._). Hated, because he couldn't hold John in the same way with his arms pinned to his sides.

"Thank you," John was mumbling against Sherlock's pulse, and Sherlock turned his head to press his cheek against John's hair. He smelled of gingerbread and frost, and Sherlock fell in love with him all over again.

The next night, after hours spent lounging in bed watching the snow fall and listening to John hum Jingle Bell Rock against Sherlock's collarbone, they dressed nicely and hailed a cab to the Holmes estate. John wore a fuzzy red Santa hat that jingled when he moved, and insisted that Sherlock wear a hideous scarf with the stylized face of the same dead Turkish saint knitted into it, and as soon as Sherlock had entered his childhood home, the doctor had snuck up behind him and clamped a headband with two puffy reindeer antlers sticking out of it onto Sherlock's head.

They had _bells_ on them.

Sherlock smiled at him indulgently, but rolled his eyes to let John know that he still thought it was childish. He didn't even complain when Mummy insisted that they take a picture together. He especially didn't complain when John noticed the mistletoe overhead and pulled Sherlock in for a quick kiss while Mummy snapped photo after photo. It was a sweet kiss, like a giggle that passed from John's lips to Sherlock's, and the taller man found himself suppressing the urge to giggle back.

John had never met Mummy, who spent most of her time in the country these days, and they took to each other wonderfully. She was an elegant woman, and Sherlock could easily see where he'd gotten his cheekbones, his long limbs, and his dark hair. He hadn't managed to get any of her easy laugh or warm smile, but that was okay, because he had John, who could laugh and smile for him.

Mummy talked quite loudly over the din of cousins and aunties and in-laws about how Her Sherlock had been so very successful, how he was working hard to rid the world of such terrible people, how he had found such a lovely man to share his life with. He knew she was proud of him, of how far he had come since meeting John.

Then she started asking John loud, pointed questions about himself. She made sure everyone in the family knew how well Her Sherlock had done for himself, snagging John.

"Oh," she said in a piercing tone, "you're a doctor, John? How interesting! And a soldier, my, you're just a fine figure of a successful man, aren't you? And you work with Sherlock for the police, how loyal of you! You cook, how remarkable! And clean? What a delightful mastery of the masculine and feminine roles! What a perfect catch you are for My Sherlock!"

The whole time, John just smiled and answered her questions, holding Sherlock's hand on the tabletop. He ignored Cousin Bess, who had taken to referring to John as 'the little woman', and managed to carry on a conversation with not only Sherlock's mother, but with Uncle Arthur (they were discussing the retirement of someone they called "Freddie") and Miriam, Cousin Ruth's flatmate (they chatted lightly about learning to ice skate) simultaneously.

Sherlock was content to spend all of dinner doing what he usually did, which was fade into the background until he could slip away unnoticed when everyone had had too much sherry. John, however, would not let anyone forget Sherlock's presence. He would talk about Sherlock, yes, but he would also talk _to_ Sherlock, neatly forcing him to join in the conversation so that he found himself saying the most inane things.

"Yes, John, I think yellow would be a lovely color for the spare room. Of course I'd love a cat, John, but short-hair. No, it was Sergeant Groves who vomited on Anderson's shoes."

And somehow, Sherlock found himself engaged in a conversation with Auntie Belinda about the compositions of Rachmaninoff as compared to Beethoven, and he was quite certain he hadn't spoken so much as a word to her since he was seven. She was an odd woman, and not even the delightful sort of odd that John was, but she knew her Beethoven, even if her knowledge of Rachmaninoff left much to be desired.

There were crackers at some point, and Sherlock's annoyingly jingly headpiece was accented with a paper _thing_ on one antler. John had swapped his Santa hat for another paper _thing_, and was chuckling over the dreadful cracker joke that Cousin Andrea was reading out. His lover looked so amused that Sherlock couldn't help but smile, leaning over to press a kiss to John's temple. He ignored the sound of camera shutters clicking and kissed John's cheek and jaw as well.

Then Mycroft caught his eye and raised one eyebrow, and Sherlock nodded.

When he'd first made the suggestion to Mycroft, he though his brother might actually manage a surprised expression. In fact, he had raised both eyebrows, which was damnably close. But his brother had not only consented, but had sounded quite pleased that Sherlock had brought the idea up. It had been many years since they had played together, and many more still since they had played for the family.

So when Mycroft sat at the piano and Sherlock picked up the violin that the elder Holmes brother had graciously brought along, a hush fell over the gathered branches of the family. Sherlock set his eyes on John, reminding himself of why he was doing this, and nodded to his brother.

The played their way through a seemingly endless list of Christmas songs, and they ended with O Holy Night, just for John. Sherlock knew, looking into his lover's eyes as he began to play, that he'd just done something very, very right.

As they leaned into each other in the cab on the way home, John laced their fingers together and smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock. I know you don't like Christmas much."

"I hate Christmas," Sherlock replied, "but I love you, and you love Christmas, so I suppose I had best learn to get along with it."

John smiled again, brilliant and _happy_, and Sherlock felt that thrill he always felt when he made John happy, because it was him, Sherlock, making John smile, making him laugh, making him love and want and need Sherlock as much as Sherlock loved and wanted and needed him.

Later, as he leaned back against the headboard, he watched the snow fall from their bedroom window as John breathed softly beside him. He was humming in his sleep, O Holy Night, and Sherlock smiled as he looked back at his book. Turning the page and delving once more into 'Hogfather', he reached out and petted John's hair absently.

"Happy Christmas, John."

Really, Sherlock thought he might not hate Christmas so much, so long as he spent it with John.

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END

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A/N - Aww, I love the idea of Sherlock wearing antlers!

Now I have a mental image of Sherlock as Santa, with John in his lap. "And what do _you_ want for Christmas? Have you been a naughty boy?"

Agh.

So, yes. I wanted to post this as soon as I'd finished it, even though it's three months too early. I do apologize if it throws people off. =3 I'm absolutely crap at withholding things.

Anyway, I've got a plan for another SOS-compatible side-story that will involve a murder revolving around fanfiction. If you'd like a mention, just leave a request in the review with a short sentence describing what it is that you love about fanfiction. Feel free to sound as obsessive and insane as you like.

I would also like to take a moment to thank everyone who has read and especially reviewed SOS. Every one of you made that story possible, because there were definitely times when I wanted to bin it and forget about it. I'm very, very glad I didn't, because I get the feeling that this is one pocket-universe I'm going to enjoy playing in from time to time. So thank you, all of you, for being Full Of Win.

Peace.

Akiko


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